


Forged in fire (or in this case ice)

by neverending_moomin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, angst and a tiny bit of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9620777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_moomin/pseuds/neverending_moomin
Summary: Sherlock and John are trapped in a refrigerated container.It was meant to be fluffy but turned out completely differently once I started to write, so yeah. Oops!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TinyNinjaQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyNinjaQueen/gifts).



> A short (ish) fic to try and get me writing again, and as a thank-you/belated birthday gift to TinyNinjaQueen who is awesome and thus the recipient of this, which I actually really like, and enjoyed writing, despite it being a little angsty. 
> 
> Enjoy 
> 
> M xx

Sherlock exhaled, his breath crystallising in the frigid air. His wrists were rubbed raw from the bonds which held him tight to the container’s inside mechanism. Across from him, and just out of reach (even if his hands hadn’t been tied behind him), John was slumped on the floor, eyes fluttering inconsistently, lips tinged blue as the shallow puffs of air that passed them became fewer and far between. Sherlock made a keening noise as he watched, gaze fixed on those barely there breaths, that told him John was still alive.

“John.” He gasped, diverting brain power away from the acknowledgement that his own fingers felt close to frozen – though he had the advantage of a thick Belstaff to insulate the rest of him, whereas John was in only a thin jumper, alright for sitting outside in March, but not for being locked in a refrigerated container.

“John!” He gasped again. Three minutes. Three minutes since John had stopped responding, had stopped fighting to be free of his cuffs. Three minutes and twelve seconds since he’d lost consciousness. Sherlock could free the icy tendrils working down to his core, pushing past the barrier of his coat and causing him to shiver. He could see the inky black that hovered at the edge of his awareness, threatening to take away his consciousness too. He would not pass out. He had to get to John first. Sherlock’s fingers were stiff with cold, and he knew the decision he had to make, had already made if he was honest. The sharp crack echoed in the near silence, but Sherlock barely winced. Numb fingers and a lifetime trying his hardest not to feel pain allowed him to break every finger in his right hand within 2 minutes, with no more than a sharper intake of breath as they snapped. It was with none of his usual grace and composure that he wrenched his hand through the cuffs, they came away from the wall without both of his hands holding them there, and he scrambled across the container. His thoughts landed only briefly on the subject of his violin playing in the future – broken fingers weren’t really conducive to that – before he shoved the thoughts away, John was worth more than his violin. John was worth more than Sherlock. John was worth everything. The man was icy to the touch, his chest barely rising and falling, and Sherlock felt the world drop out from under him when he thought of leaving without this man by his side. When he thought of all he would lose if this man, this ordinary, extraordinary man, John Watson, did not make it out of here alive. The Belstaff was off of him and wrapped around John before he could blink, rubbing futile warmth into frozen hands. Sherlock paced, working slight warmth back into his body and letting himself feel the strain of keeping his brain functioning in the face of all this cold, he understood the term mind-numbing now, he though bitterly. Thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to pace, and then back to work. John had been unconscious for almost six minutes (5 minutes 38 seconds, but who was counting?). Sherlock couldn’t think. He wasn’t coherent enough, and nothing would work anyway. Despair. He noted absently, brain trying to flee into his mind palace. The safe, warm rooms of his mind palace, where John sat laughing pleasantly and the fire crackled in the hearth of Baker Street. He was slipping, leaning into the tug of his thoughts, to the blissful change of unconsciousness. Fight it Sherlock! His eyes struggled open. He was on the floor. When had that happened? Ragged irregular breaths, dark spots in his vision, the shivering had stopped it would all be over soon. Come on Sherlock! He was running out of time. “John.” It was a whisper, barely passing his lips. Sherlock crawled, hands and knees, crawled to John’s side.  A hug. He needed to hug John. Share body heat, he couldn’t get them out of this now. Warmth. Warmth. Warmth. He craved it. His gaze slipped over John’s face, memorizing it – not that there was much point now, he supposed. Not much point. Not long to live. Sherlock looked. Sherlock thought. Sherlock kissed. It was so light a pressure he wasn’t sure he hadn’t hallucinated the action, but there wasn’t much point pretending now. Not when it’d all be over soon. Not when John couldn’t see him, or feel him. Not when John couldn’t reject or respond. Not when John wouldn’t ever know. He sighed out a breath, feeling the black creep in, falling against John’s chest, feeling John’s heart beating slow and irregular, feeling.... feeling a vibration, feeling a lump, smooth and oblong pressing into his head. With all his remaining will power he shifted. Looking. His hands scrabbled at the fabric of John’s jumper, ahead of his too slow mind. No? Really? Sherlock would have been irritated at the stupidity if he wasn’t so happy, so far from normal cognitive processes. His fingers wouldn't work. He wanted to scream, they were to cold, to uncoordinated. No. No. No. Swipe. Swipe. Head crashing onto Johns chest. Swipe. Click.

“John, where are you? Have you seen Sherlock? He’s missi–“

“Mycroft......” it slipped past his lips ghosting over the microphone of the phone, which was exactly when John stopped breathing, and Sherlock passed out.

“Sherlock! Sherlock! Are you alright? SHERLOCK!”

 

 *  *  *  *  *

 

It was a terrible cliché, but it was the beeping that woke him. Of all the things, it seemed to be ridiculous to be woken by that, by his own heartbeat. Despite the cliché, that was what woke him, and so he knew exactly where he was, he just couldn’t for the life of him workout _why_ he was where he was. Memory was an odd thing. Terribly confusing most of the time, and for most of the population certainly, difficult to navigate. Which was why it took approximately seven minutes of thinking, before he came up with the answer. Or rather, his brain nudged him towards the right memories. Right, of course. The container, how could he forget? He felt the shivers racking his frame and wondered what temperature he’d achieved to be thinking but not awake as such. To be shivering still even though hospitals where stifling hot most of the time. If there was one thing he hated, it was hospitals. Ironic, considering. But he was sure Mycroft would have sorted things out, kept them private enough – must have done, to get them into a hospital which had the equipment for cardio-pulmonary bypass this far outside London. His thoughts shifted and settled as they considered Mycroft, redirecting themselves towards the primary concern, the person he’d not forgotten exactly, more who’d been lingering on the fringes for so long that despite their insistent nagging on his brain he’d been shutting them out of his immediate thoughts. The person who was always occupying his thoughts in some way or another, it just so happened, that today it was full of burning, immediate concern and worry. He was full to the brim with worry and anxiety over this person right now. And it was that worry, not the beeping of a heart rate monitor thank-you-very-much, which brought him steaming out of his own head and into the present. Into reality.

 

“Sherlock.” John’s eyes snapped open, feeling the residual fog of induced coma and severe hypothermia cling to him like a second skin. His outburst was muffled by the ventilator mask covering his face, and so, if it weren’t for the keen ears of the Holmes sat in the chair next to his bed, his words would probably have gone unheard and unheeded. Mycroft sighed in relief when John spoke, and the blond could see the tell-tale worry lines creasing his forehead. The dark circles and blotchy eyes of someone who’d spent so long trying to be composed and had instead had a meltdown, staying up five nights in a row beside the bedside of one John Watson, MD.

“Mycroft. Sherlock.” Panic laced his tone, eyes wide with fear. Mycroft smiled tiredly.

“It’s okay John, don’t talk now. He’s fine, you’re both okay. Sherlock’s over there, sleeping still.” John craned his neck to see past Mycroft, to follow the man’s gestured hand. Not three feet away was another bed, the chair Mycroft occupied was sandwiched between them, and John could just about see the pale hand which could only belong to Sherlock resting atop the bed covers next to a lump which John presumed was the rest of Sherlock. He let out a sigh, loosening the tension from his body. Mycroft moved the chair so he was no longer blocking John from seeing Sherlock’s head, and he let out a strangled sob. The normally pale detective was ash white, ventilation tubes ran up to his face, and a steady drip, drip, noise filled the room, accompanied by the gently wheezing of the by-pass machine.

“He’s still...”

“Yes, he’s still on by-pass; believe it or not he managed to get it worse than you. Gave you his coat by the look of things, and then spent close to fourteen minutes with only his shirt and trousers on, went into cardiac arrest twice on the flight over. I had you both airlifted out but on by-pass immediately and then warmed up. It felt so silly not warming you up as fast as possible with hot water bottles and thermal blankets, but they knew what they were doing. Can’t warm up too quickly or your blood vessels expand and you go into cardiac arrest. I guess he decided to do it just for the fun of it. To make me worry.” Mycroft’s voice is almost teasing, but it’s too light, too forced.

“You had us... You found us... airlifted...”

“It’s okay, don’t talk, you’re still recovering.” Mycroft patted John’s hand a little awkwardly, and John could see how vulnerable the man was. How hard he’d fallen.

“He couldn’t... across the room...coat.” Mycroft’s expression is pained, his voice low,

“He broke his own fingers getting out of those cuffs. Getting to you.” Mycroft closes his eyes and swallows.

“Violin....” Mycroft nods grimly.

“They should heal, with time. They’ve been set properly and if we can get him to rest them a bit, not do anything silly, he might be able to play again. They’re on his right hand, his bow hand, which makes things easier, but they’ll never be quite the same.” Mycroft’s eyes harden as they lock John in place. “I hope you realise how much you mean to him. What this means.” John breaks the other man’s gaze, twisting to see his flatmate in the bed opposite. The rise and fall of his chest is mesmerising. It gives him courage.

“I love him.” Barely more than a whisper, so quiet that John can almost imagine he didn’t say it. He tears his gaze away slowly, eyes tracking over to the elder Holmes. Mycroft isn’t looking at him though, his gaze remains on Sherlock, taking his brother’s hand in his own.

“Good.”

There’s a flickering of eyelids, an elevated heart monitor, and Sherlock is gasping awake. “John.” He turns, and locks eyes with the military man. The fear subsides, he can breathe again. “John.” In, out. “John.” In that word John hears a thousand words. A thousands memories. A thousand smiles and touches. A thousand unspoken I love you’s and he knows, knows that through everything, they will be okay.


End file.
